


Consequences

by AryYuna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Mark of Cain, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AryYuna/pseuds/AryYuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere after episode 9x17. Cain had told him there would be consequences and Dean had now recognized the signs in himself. But he would’ve said yes anyway.<br/>Already posted on FFN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s taken me ages to finish this story. I began to write it in Italian before Blade Runners, and it was complete - I only had to translate it into English - but then I watched episodes 9x16 and 17 and re-wrote it all XD. It was originally meant as a one-shot, but then it grew too much and I had to split it in two chapters. Second chapter will be online in a few days.  
> This story was inspired from my love for Dean. And since I’m one of those (psycho) fans who love showing their love for a character by whumping them, I decided to try and write my first hurt/comfort. The “hurt”, of course, is Dean XD  
> Some brief notes:  
> I researched Cain and Abel (and I owe a big thank you to Carolina who patiently helped me), but I ended up inventing everything. After all, the show version of their story is different from the Holy Books.  
> Heatherfield - the town mentioned in this story - is totally fictional. I borrowed its name from a comic book (“W.I.T.C.H.”) I used to read and love when I was twelve.  
> I don’t know how some fanwriters manage to write long and detailed hunts, with lots of lore, good enemies and complex stories. I’m not one of them. Sorry ^^’  
> This is my first hurt/comfort. I know nada about medicine, except what I learnt from TV shows and fanfiction and a little Google. So don’t try and use anything you’ll find in my story, ‘cause it could be a pile of crap. I beg your forgiveness if you’re a medical expert, I hope you’ll overlook my mistakes for the sake of the story.
> 
> I apologize for my English; it’s not my first language and I don’t have a beta-reader. If you find any mistakes, please let me know and I’ll see to fix them. You can read this story in Italian here: http://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=2568627&i=1

_“[…] I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”_

_“Not so. Anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”_

_Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him._

_~_ _Genesis 4:14-16_

It was night when they returned to the bunker. The car trip had been quiet: still annoyed for having lost the First Blade just when they’d finally found it and being outwitted - again - by Crowley, Sam and Dean were lost in thoughts. Not even the ever-present music disrupted the atmosphere heavy with frustration in the car.

When they got to the Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, Dean didn’t park his car close to the entrance like usual, but drove around the building to get to the garage. He wouldn’t risk anything else happen to his baby.

Sam didn’t say anything; he got out when his brother turned the engine off and started to the main area of the bunker: he was tired and wanted to go to sleep, the last few days had been long and hard and part of a tiring period. Halfway through the garage, though, he noticed Dean wasn’t following him. He stood next to the car, staring at its damaged side, a lost look in his eyes. Sam had often teased him for his obsession over the Impala, but he knew what it meant to his brother. He knew it - _she_ \- wasn’t just a car.

And he knew what it meant to Dean seeing her ruined - _violated_ \- by Abaddon. It was one more reason to hate the demon, to want her dead, to throw himself in desperate research. To spend another sleepless night.

Dean must’ve noticed his staring, because he raised his eyes onto his brother.

“I’m gonna try and put her back together,” he only said before walking to the closet where he kept the tools and take something - Sam ignored what, since, as far as he knew, when someone had scratched your car you just took it to a mechanic.

The younger man eyed him for a moment, musing whether to point out to his brother that they were both tired and needed to sleep, not to fix car, but he didn’t know how to phrase it; worse still, he knew he had no right to do so: he was the one who’d asked to keep their relationship professional - telling Dean to go to bed wasn’t professional, it was brotherly.

He sighed. It was what he’d wanted, after all: for Dean to understand his mistakes, to learn - for Sam, but for himself as well - let his brother go, to let his brother grow up. And to grow up himself.

Sam ignored the voice in his head reminding him of his brother devastated look after their talk in the kitchen and just got through the bunker to his room.

‘His room’.

Sam had never felt it as his room. Yeah, it was the room he slept in, where he kept his clothes and his laptop when he wasn’t using it. It was the room where he kept his iPod and his hunter journal. But he’d never felt it as ‘his room’. Nor the bunker as his home.

If you thought about it, it was strange: Sam Winchester had hated his nomadic life since he was a kid, had wanted a home and a normal life for years before running off to Stanford, where he’d deluded himself to having finally found his desired normality. And wasn’t his quest for normality that had kept him in that motel with Amelia? But Sam Winchester had grown up, had learnt that normality can hurt as much as not having a home, if not more. Normality gives you a sense of serenity that just doesn’t exist, is not part of life. And that gets ripped out by life itself: Jess had died, Amelia had gone away.

He’d never felt the bunker as his is _home_ because he didn’t want a home: he was too scared to lose it; he’d already lost it every time he’d found it.

He’d watched Dean decorate his room, make it his. He’d watched his brother take possession of a functioning old record player - one of those you could only find in private collections, nowadays - and bring it to his room; he’d watched as Dean tried to understand how to use eBay and focusing on the laptop ‘till midnight to win the auction for the original Led Zeppelin LPs he wanted. He hadn’t scolded his brother for wasting money like that: now that they had the bunker, they didn’t need to spare the money they won hustling in bar of ill repute to pay for a motel; also, if they ever found they needed money, the Men of Letters shelter was full of antiquities they could sell.

But he’d never joined Dean in that. The bunker was a work place, a base. It was handy; but it wasn’t home. Sam Winchester had stopped believing in normality and had surrendered to a hunter’s life: it was the life his father had raised him in, the life where he’d learned to talk and to walk; it was the life that had allowed him to survive when he’d lost all reason to live. And it was the life that should’ve killed him, given him - at last - the peace he deserved.

He undressed and, clad only in a t-shirt and shorts, he lay down between clean sheets and turned off the light. He fell asleep almost immediately.

\---

It took hours, but Dean finally managed to fix almost all the damage on the side of the car. It was five in the morning when he finally looked up from his beloved Impala and got up wiping his hands on a rag and rolling his neck to loosen stiff muscles.

He was tired. Lately, he wasn’t sleeping more than a couple hours at time, and he’d now been awake for almost two full days without interruption. But he couldn’t rest: he had to find Abaddon, tear her to pieces with the Blade.

The Blade.

Dean closed his eyes. He remember what he’d felt when Magnus had first put it into his hands, the sudden sharp pain in his arm where the Mark of Cain stood red, the surprise, the heat. His desire to use it. He remembered what he’d felt when he’d finally used it to behead the man who’d dared to hurt Sam. He remembered the power, the rage, the hatred he’d felt when he’d seen Crowley, his excitement when he thought about using it on the demon. Nothing existed anymore around Dean: there was the First Blade in his fist, his target a few feet away.

When Sam’s voice had had fought its way through the fog clouding his senses beyond the narrow tunnel connecting the Blade to its next victim, it was like awakening. He’d dropped the Blade as if it’d burnt him - and it had, in a way. Dean had never felt anything like that. A part of him was scared. The other… was looking forward to the next time he’d have the Blade in his hands.

And this scared him even more.

As if awakened by the memory, a sharp pain went through the Mark of Cain and Dean shook himself out of his thoughts. It was pointless, thinking about the Blade and what had happened when he’d used it: he had no choice; he’d have to use it again to kill Abaddon. He couldn’t let the demon bitch live.

He put the tools down and ran a trembling hand along his baby’s body, like a goodnight caress to the one who’d never betrayed him, even if she’d been hurt many times for him, than strolled out the garage and went to his room. He sadly snorted, closing the door behind himself. A year ago, he’d put all himself into making the room _his_ : LPs, a working record player like there were none in the world, except in some private collections, the only photo he had of his mother, magazines, weapons. Everything that was _Dean_.

Now the room was bare and cold again. Dean had stopped knowing what “home” meant when he was four, and he’d deluded himself into thinking he could find in the Men of Letter’s bunker the same feeling of safety he’d felt as a little kid; but, as they teach children in schools, “home is where mom and dad are, home is where family is”. And his family was dead - or had disowned him - what was the point in putting an LP and a photo from the last time his life had been calm? He’d taken everything down and left the weapons, because it was the room of a hunter.

He shrugged off his jacket and left it on the chair by the empty desk and sat on the bed, his boots still in place; he took his laptop and started researching.

He opened lots of websites looking for news about paranormal activity, omens of demonic presence - of Abbadon. And, all the while, the Mark kept burning. The ache never disappeared altogether, it was always there in the background, spiking up every now and then no apparent reason. As if the Mark was trying to remind him of its presence. As if it needed to: after what happened last night, forgetting was impossible.

Honestly, sometimes Dean could’ve punched himself in his face for his impulsiveness: he would’ve taken the Mark whatever its cost, but letting Cain _tell_ him what bearing it entailed would’ve been a good idea. While waiting for Crowley and the First Blade, he’d researched everywhere - among the Men of Letters’ books, on the internet, even of his father’s journal - but he hadn’t been able to find anything: the Genesis book just mentioned it, the experts didn’t say anything useful and, most important, no-one seemed to know the story Cain had told him.

And now that he’d held the Blade, the questions were even more, while the answers became more and more frightening.

 _But it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter_. He had to kill Abaddon and the Blade was the only way to do so.

He possibly fell asleep. Or maybe he just closed his eyes for a few minutes. When he blinked awake, he decided it was time to get up, get a coffee and go back to research omens; his bones screamed in protest like he was a eighty-year-old - after all, he would never get to that old an age, might a well do it now - for being still for so long, but a hot shower would fix it.

_If only everything could be so easily fixed._

_\---_

Life had no intention to leave them be: a few days - and no progress - later, Sam had got back from the job in Milton, Illinois, and told him that Abaddon was building an army of demons stealing and corrupting innocent souls.

The news came as a wet blanket and had brought Dean to research even more frantically than before: he had to find Abaddon, tear her to pieces. It was the only thing that mattered.

Sam had joined him in his research, trying every now and then to act like his Jiminy Cricket and make him take a break to eat and sleep; but, when it would’ve once worked, there just wasn’t enough closeness between them, now. There was too much tension for Sam’s attempt to be seen as made out of love, too many things, said and done, that couldn’t be erased anymore.

The third day after Milton, Sam got into the kitchen around eight in the morning, dressed and with his hair orderly to find his brother sitting with his laptop before a cup a coffee. He nodded his good morning, and Dean politely answered without tearing his eyes off the screen; Sam stopped and looked at him. The elder Winchester wore clean clothes, but a stubble covered his chin and dark circles were around his empty eyes, alert and focused on his computer. Sam wanted to ask him if he’d slept at all, but knew it was pointless.

“What are you looking?” he asked instead.

Dean didn’t raise his head, but turned his laptop towards Sam to show what he’d found. Sam glanced over the screen: it was a forum about supernatural, and the last post was about a possible threat in Heatherfield.

It was a weak trail.

“It reliable?” Sam asked.

“It’s worth a try. It’s close.” Anything just to do something, to move, to act.

“And it could be about Abaddon?”

Dean nodded. It was a frail hope, but Sam understood where it came from. He poured himself some coffee and drank it in silence. “Alright,” he said taking his empty cup to the sink to rinse it and put it into the dishwasher with the rest of the load.

Heatherfield, Kansas was one of those towns with few citizens, where everyone knew everyone since grade school and ended up marrying their high school sweetheart. It was an hour drive south of Lebanon.

For a week, now, the idyllic town had been shaken by unexplainable events that had brought a couple to write on a supernatural website asking for help. They didn’t seem to have gotten much from their attempt, but their open - or gullible, if you prefer - mind made the Winchesters’ job easier, for once: no fake FBI badges, no cover story, they could be normal Ghostbusters. Or something like that.

Rose Withers opened the door with a forced smile and let them in the living room, where her husband - Ronald - shook hands with them. The woman offered them coffee and started talking: six days ago, while she was on the back yard watering the flowers, she’d noticed a lot of dead flowers, even if they’d had looked gorgeous just the day before. She’d brushed it off as unimportant, but then there had been flowers and plants and even cattle dying everywhere in the town. Ronald told them he’d researched online and found websites about how to recognize demonic passage. He’d taken those proofs to the sheriff for him to call the FBI.

“He laughed in my face, but I know I’m right,” Ronald stated.

Dean raised a _well, what did you expect?_ eyebrow and Sam elbowed him discreetly. Rose noticed, but she smiled.

“I know it sounds crazy, and we thought it at the beginning. But we recognized all the omens: electromagnetic interference, dead goats…” She stopped and her eyes become sad.

“Mrs. Withers?” Sam asked.

The woman shook her head and her husband put an arm around her shoulders.

“Our daughter, Lizzie, has vanished. Yesterday afternoon. She was in her room, I saw her climb the stairs after lunch, but when I called a few hours later she didn’t answer. I looked for her, but when I got into her room I found it empty and the window open…”

“Take a look yourselves. We didn’t touch anything” Ronald added seeing that his wife couldn’t speak anymore.

The brothers exchanged a look and went upstairs. The girl’s room looked like hundreds of other teenagers’ rooms: pale pink walls, pictures of her with her friends, posters of actors and singers, stuffed toys on the bed, school books, and a backpack next to the desk. But they understood right away what her parents meant: there was a clear smell of rotten eggs and, on the windowsill, there was a yellow dust. Sam got close to examine it.

“Sulfur,” he confirmed.

“Why kidnap her? What would serve a little girl to Abaddon?”

“We don’t know Abaddon is involved,” Sam answered.

Dean didn’t even want to take that chance into account: he needed to make progress in his search. “And why not kill her parents? Why take her from her room like a random lunatic?”

“It’s less conspicuous than kill off her family” the younger man speculated thinking back to when Azazel had taken him from the shop he’d entered alone: he’d waited for Sam to get out the car rather than killing Dean to take him, like when he’d taken Ava.

Dean nodded, convinced.

They got back downstairs and said goodbye to the Withers, promising they’d do everything they could to find Lizzie.

They patrolled the town, noticing the dead flowerbeds and trees. They asked around discreetly, but no-one seemed concerned about a few flowers.

“God only knows what nasty chemical they used,” an old man said shaking his head.

They got to the end of the main street; there were more dead flowers.

“We gotta find what’s special with this girl. What would a demon want from a normal human being?” Sam mused.

It was about a job, they were allowed to discuss jobs.

Dean shrugged.

“When we find her, we’ll find out.”

“Knowing _why_ they took her will help us find her,” his brother patiently pointed out.

Dean didn’t answer - if because he was thinking about it or ignoring him, it wasn’t clear. “Look at the flowerbeds,” he said after a while pointing at the closest one. Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow. “There are many others around the Withers’ place, but not on the other side.”

“It’s like a path,” Sam completed nodding.

“That takes outside town.”

\---

“Do you have a plan?” Sam asked to break the smothering silence in the car.

Having to actually _discuss_ the plan was sad: they’d always been able to improvise, but it wasn’t a good idea trying to do that when they weren’t so synchronized, these days.

“We have Ruby’s knife and the Devil’s Trap bullets. I get in with the gun, you cover my back. We find the girl and interview the demons. If they don’t talk, we kill them.”

It didn’t matter that Sam was a great hunter and an adult man, it didn’t even matter that that instinct of protection of Dean’s was the very reason they’d fought: Dean Winchester wouldn’t let his _little_ brother to enter a room without making sure it was safe, first.

“What if the girl isn’t there?”

“We ask the demons that too,” was the terse answer. Sam saw a brief flash of himself exorcizing demons with his powers after torturing them to know where Lilith was - and another picture superimposed the first: Dean, unconscious and bloody in Alistair hands, next to a broken Devil’s Trap and a table full of torture tools. Be shuddered and shook his head to dislodge that thought.

Among the fields before them, a big building - a warehouse - stood out. All around it, the vegetation was dead.

“It’s big,” Sam pointed out.

“We’ll split,” readily answered Dean; at that, his brother turned towards him, frowning, but Dean went on, without seeing him: “You’ll take the gun - and you geek brain that knows the exorcism - while I’ll take the knife. The one who finds the girl calls the other.”

And it made sense, from a strategical point of view: they were both proficient in all weapons - and they had been for years, since they were an age when normal usually kids play baseball or an instrument - but, even if smaller than his huge brother, Dean was the more lethal with a knife. Also, - and Dean hoped Sam hadn’t thought about it - to use a knife, you’d need to be close enough to the enemy to stab him, and that meant a bigger danger.

Sam looked back at the road before him without a word. They parked the Impala far enough from the warehouse for those inside not to hear the engine. They got close without a word, Dean with the gun, Sam with Ruby’s knife. They exchanged a look and a nod, then Dean entered first, gun raised, while Sam covered his back - just as they’d planned; just as they’d always done.

Nobody. From the square room, sparsely furnished with a desk and a chair, a corridor led to the rest of the building. They proceeded holding their position until they found a fork. Cursing their luck - and, damn it, they _needed_ to find a way to replicate the demon-killing Cold - Dean signaled for Sam to swap their weapons and split as they’d agreed. Sam didn’t look too happy with that development: together they were stronger, and even if he’d agreed to that plan, he didn’t like the idea of not having his brother where he could see him. Dean signaled with his watch that a lot of time had already passed since the girl had been probably taken - the longer they took, the less chance they had to find her alive. Reluctantly, Sam gave his brother the knife and took the gun, watching Dean turning left. Sighing - and preying their luck wouldn’t be _that_ bad - he turned right.

 _Hoping something isn’t bad is the best way to make it worse_ , Sam told himself when, after the umpteenth turn - how the hell had that warehouse been built? - he saw two demons walking down the corridor. He wanted to take his phone and call Dean, but the pair spotted him and Sam had to fire the gun. He didn’t have the time to ask them anything, though, because the noise attracted three more demons; the young Winchester had to stop them with the special bullets. He was about to call Dean when a sudden thought stopped him: if five demons could afford to wander about the building without a care, how many others were watching the hostage?

_And why the hell did they take the girl?_

The answer came in a form he didn’t like even one bit when a sixth demon showed up.

_The missing girl._

\---

On the other side of the warehouse, Dean hadn’t found anyone yet when he heard the gunshots.

“Sammy,” he muttered and was about to go back when two demons approached him from behind. The hunter pivoted to stab them with Ruby’s knife - damn it, he’d need to keep one _alive_ to ask him where Abaddon was hiding - but two more came soon. He heard more shots, but he didn’t have time to do anything before one of the newcomers blocked his arm while the other took a knife to stab him.

Dean managed to distract the demon holding him by suddenly bending at the waist and freed his arm enough to throw his knife towards the second demon, killing it; the bastard holding him, though, didn’t let him go: it pulled him towards the stairs that led to the main area of the warehouse, a huge rectangular room full of piled up carton boxes and metal bars that’d served who know what purpose, once. Dean wiggled and kicked, but the demon just twisted and threw him down the metal stairs; Dean rolled down for a few steps, but managed to break his fall by catching hold of the banister.

Livid, he stood up, his hand on the holy water flask he kept inside the jacket and started climbing down the steps backwards and scanning the room to make sure it was safe. He looked back at the demon that had tried to kill him and saw Ruby’s knife in its hand.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

At the foot of the stairs, he quickly considered his options: the most obvious choice would be attacking his opponent with the holy water to distract it and try to take the knife back. Problem was the demon was now possessing a guy as tall as Sam and twice as large - _and that’s why it managed to take me_ , Dean decided - and even if he knew that a demon was strong beyond the body he was possessing, Dean had no intention to try and bodily take a human tank.

The second choice he thought about was running, but he’d never let the chance to get to Abaddon go like that - and anyway, the stairs was the only way out of there.

He could try and find something to distract the demon, to hurt it, at least? He knew the only weapons that worked against demons were Ruby’s - and Crowley’s, now that he thought about it - knife and the lost Colt. He regretted the moment he’d decided not to take more Devil’s Trap bullets, they’d be handy, but whining would take him nowhere.

_Holy water it is, then._

He unscrewed the lid off the flask before taking it out and throwing it in the face of the demon before it could understand and duck; it didn’t let the knife go, but screamed in pain taking its free hand to its burning face. Dean assaulted it before it could regroup, blocking its wrist and bending its hand so that the blade aimed at its stomach.

He couldn’t sink it in. The demon, now furious, used its powers to free itself from the hunter - it was obvious that someone would do it, sooner or later, they couldn’t be _all_ that stupid and forget the only advantage they had - and held him against the wall; it slowly walked towards him, knife raised, a murderous look in its eyes. Alerted by the noise, or maybe by their buddy’s scream, two more demons came into the room.

Although he was alone against three of them - and he was blocked against the fucking wall - Dean had no intention so back down and kept looking his enemy in the eye.

“What ya waiting for, ape man? You are blocking me, you have my knife. You even have two pals there to back you up, in case you’re too stupid to do anything alone,” he provoked the demon. “Abaddon desperate enough to recruit the dumbest demons? Or maybe you’re not one of her thugs?” He had nothing more to lose and, maybe, he could get a few answers that way - or, maybe, he’d manage to break the demon’s focus.

_Yeah, right._

He hadn’t heard any more shots, so Sam had got rid of all the demons he’d found - or he was… no, that wasn’t possible, Sam was _alive_ \- and maybe he was coming to help him, but he dismissed the idea: they were just working partners, they were there to work, and the work wasn’t done yet, they hadn’t found the girl yet. Sam would’ve gone to look for the hostage.

Weird, the idea that he could die wasn’t scary; not like the idea of losing Sam, six months ago.

_“You didn’t save me for me. You did it for you. You didn’t want to be alone.”_

While his opponent was raising the knife, three things happened at the same time: Dean felt an excruciating pain shoot through his right arm, the demon’s powers let him go and a scream sounded.

Dean fell to his knees and could barely make out the three demons on the floor before him - were they dead? - before sinking into the darkness.

\---

Sam froze for a few long seconds when he saw the supposed hostage coming against him with her eyes black. He managed to shake himself and raise his gun to fire. The girl fell to her - its - knees, staring at its chest when the bullet had hit it.

“Why are you all here?” was all the young man managed to ask, but the five demons just looked at him, smirking with hatred. ‘Lizzie’ shook her - its - head. “I asked you why,” Sam repeated, but the girl kept on grinning and looking like a maniac. “I could send you all back to Hell. _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…_ ”

The six demons writhed in pain, the smirks wiped off their faces, but no-one of them begged nor answered. Sam clenched his fists.

“Is it about Abaddon?” he asked interrupting the exorcism. He needed an answer. “Her fight against Crowley?” ‘Lizzie’ made a low, satisfied laugh. It sounded like an animal. And Sam understood: it was a trap.

They should’ve understood it sooner: the desperate parents asking for help on a website, the kidnapping, the dead flowers path, the smell of sulfur… it didn’t make sense. But adding to the list that Abaddon _knew_ the Winchesters were looking for the only weapon in the world that could kill her…

He recited the exorcism as quickly as he could, then turned around and ran towards the fork where they’d split up, praying Dean hadn’t found any trouble - but he had, Sam was sure, ‘cause otherwise he’d come to his little brother’s help as soon as he’d heard the gunshots, ‘cause no matter what Sam had told him, he’d never abandon his little brother in danger - praying he was ok.

He got to the fork and felt his heart sink into his stomach when he heard the inhuman cry. He took the other corridor, running, and stopped cold when he saw the three corpses next to a door that led to a metal staircase… and at the foot of the stairs was Dean, on his knees, his left hand on his right arm, his face twisted in pain.

Before him, three demons fell to the ground. Dead.

And, as if someone had cut the strings holding him up, Dean’s face relaxed and he crumpled to the ground as well.

“Dean!”

Sam ran down the stairs and fell to his knees next to his brother, pressing two fingers to his neck to find a heartbeat. He sighed in relief when he felt the faint pulse under his fingers and proceeded to examine his brother’s body looking for breaks, wounds.

“Dean?” he tried to rouse him, but Dean didn’t answer. And… was he paler than when they’d split in the corridor or was just an impression?

He ran his fingers through Dean’s short hair, looking for wounds of lumps, delicately raised his eyelids and was glad to see his pupils react to the neon light.

Sam conceded himself a moment to look around, confused. Did the demons do it? And how did they do it, if Sam had seen them collapse? The biggest one held something in his hands… Ruby’s knife?

Sam snapped his eyes back to Dean and felt cold inside: Dean had been disarmed; he’d been alone against three demons, without the knife, without a damn gun with special bullets, without Sam watching his back.

 _We should’ve never split_ , Sam told himself, regretting that he hadn’t opposed to his brother’s plan.

Still, Dean had made it: he’d killed three demons on his own - without a weapon?

_One thing at a time._

First, they had to get away from there: Abaddon would soon arrive to reap what she’d sown. He tried once again to rouse Dean, calling him, shaking him, but he couldn’t. And was it him of Dean’s skin felt warmer?

He took his phone and dialed Castiel’s number.

“Cas? It’s Sam. Listen: I need you to get to the bunker ASAP. It’s Dean…”

He didn’t need to say anything more; Castiel promised him he’d be there as soon as possible and hung up. Sam hoped Cas wasn’t too far, and sighing pocketed his phone and got to the problem at hand: how could he get his unconscious brother out of there? Albeit like three inches shorter than him, Dean was anything but small: climbing stairs, walking through the long corridor and the distance between the warehouse and the Impala wouldn’t be easy for Sam with the added weight of his brother.

He took Ruby’s knife and put it into his jeans back pocket; he then tried one last time to rouse Dean and then got started on his arduous job. He maneuvered his brother in a comfortable position to lift him on his shoulders, then slowly got to his feet to balance the weight. He turned trying not to sway, raised his gun with his free hand and started on the long path.

He got to the Impala without finding any more demons, and opened the back door of the car to carefully lay his brother on the backseat, bending his legs to make him fit; he then climbed behind the wheel and started the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to learn to plot the stories in chapters. This way I wouldn’t find myself with a second chapter five pages longer than chapter one XD  
> The line from the show is from episode 9x13  
> I hope you enjoyed this first part. Please, let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Sam made in forty minutes an hour drive, albeit he’d spent half the time glancing to the rearview mirror and calling his brother’s name to try and wake him up - and, damn it, that picture was too similar to the one of eight years ago for the peace of his mind. He briefly considered the idea of bringing Dean to a hospital, but decided he’d let Cas do his magic. He only had to hope the angel would arrive soon, now that he could no longer zap.

He was immensely relieved when he saw Castiel standing next to the hidden entrance of the bunker. He got out of the car to open the gate.

“You made it,” he said, surprised, slipping the keys in the keyhole.

“I asked a friend to bring me near here,” the angel replied. “Dean?”

Sam sighed.

“In the car. He’s… I can’t wake him.”

Cas frowned but didn’t say anything.

Sam opened the gate to the bunker and got back to the Impala to get Dean. He didn’t ask for Castiel’s help, even if the angel could’ve carried Dean without breaking a sweat even down the stairs: he wouldn’t let anybody touch his brother while he was vulnerable, not even his guardian angel - which was stupid however he looked at it, but Cas respected his decision and just kept close in case his help was needed.

Sam got Dean into his room and gently lay him on the bed. Dean didn’t wake.

“What happened?” Cas asked approaching the unconscious man.

“We were hunting. Demons. We split up, but it was a trap. I don’t know what happened: when I got there, there were three demons… they collapsed to the floor, dead. And he… passed out. I couldn’t wake him up.”

Cas touched to fingers to the older Winchester’s forehead, ready to use his angelic powers, but frowned, confuses.

“I can’t.”

“What? Why?”

“Something is blocking me,” the angel answered, “It’s…”

Castiel stopped suddenly, recoiling as if he’d been burned; his eyes were huge, horrified.

“Cas? What…” Sam began, but the angel didn’t hear him. His eyes were on Dean, frightened - disgusted?

“What have you done?” he whispered.

Sam felt that cold grow inside him again. He wanted to ask again, but couldn’t find his voice.

Castiel sighed, closing his eyes, his shoulders bowing.

“He carries the Mark of the First Murderer” he said without tearing his gaze off Dean, and his eyes were infinitely sad.

“The Mark… The Mark of Cain? That’s what you’re talking about?” Sam asked, hesitant, trying to understand. When Dean had first told him about the Mark, in Garth’s hospital room, he was so shocked because his brother hadn’t tried to hide it, hadn’t tried to lie, that he couldn’t ask him anything more before Garth vanished and they were busy looking for him. When they got back to the bunker, he’d researched the Mark, of course: he’d looked among the Men of Letter’s books and on the internet, even went to the library to make sure he’d tried everything, but he’d found nothing about the Mark’s effects.

But then they’d found the First Blade and Dean had killed Magnus. Sam knew he could never forget his brother’s eyes when he held the weapon: it was too similar to that Sam had found too many times in the mirror five years ago, when Ruby’s blood was consuming him from the inside.

Sam had been scared. And with every word he’d used to try and make his brother snap out of it - with every word Dean hadn’t _heard_ \- the fear had increased.

Castiel’s reaction was adding to that fear.

“You… knew?” the angel asked, finally looking up to the younger Winchester. He was confused.

“It’s a long story: Dean told he met Cain. With the Mark he can use the First Blade and kill Abaddon.”

Cas looked even more horrified.

“He met the First Murderer?” He shook his head.

“Cas…” Sam said, frustrated. Castiel turned back to a still unconscious Dean. He touched the hunter’s forehead.

“The fever is climbing,” he said. “The Mark is preventing me from helping him. It stops my powers.”

Sam looked away, passing his hand through his hair. He nodded and got up to get some cold water and a washcloth to try and keep the fever under control until they could rouse Dean enough to make him swallow an aspirin or something.

_Supposing that an aspirin makes a difference._

“Why isn’t he waking? What happened to him?” he asked returning to Dean’s room. He set the washbasin on the nightstand and put the wet cloth on his brother’s forehead. He felt a knot in his chest, seeing Dean pale and still.

“The Mark protected him from the demons trying to kill him.”

“ _’Anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over’_. The Bible says ‘kills’…”

“The version contained in the Bible is erroneous; centuries of translations and different interpretations have modified it” Castiel answered.

They watched Dean in silence. Sam removed the cloth from his forehead and wet it again.

“Do you know what happened?”

Castiel mused for a few seconds.

“The version I will tell you is incomplete, because only the archangels really know what happened” he finally said. “What I know is that Cain was seduced by Lucifer. He killed his brother Abel and that act of hatred irreparably destroyed his soul, turning him into a demon. Lucifer marked him, made him immortal and gave him the lead of his demons to train them. This is how the Knights of Hell were born. According to the legend, there was a battle between the archangels and the Knights, where the latter were killed. Or, that is what we believed,” he said.

Sam nodded. It matched what Henry had told them a year ago.

“So… the Mark made him immortal?”

“The Mark was to protect Cain. _’Anyone who tries to kill Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over’_ would be more correct.”

It didn’t make any sense: since he’d received the Mark, Dean had risked to die several times - he’d fought werewolves, pishtacos, humans… and not even once the Mark had done anything.

“Why now? It’s not the first time he was in danger since he’s received it.”

“But he survived every time.”

“Yeah, well, he managed to defend himself, or I was there with him…” Sam answered, confused.

Castiel nodded.

“Exactly: there was no need for the Mark to reveal itself. But this time, like you said, he was alone and at a disadvantage. Without the Mark, he would have died.”

Sam swallowed, looking back at his unconscious brother. “Then what happened to him? Why did he pass out?” he asked. That was the part he really cared about, the rest would came later. When they’d met Magnus and Dean had used the First Blade, Sam thought it was dangerous for its user. Now he was starting to think that the Mark was just as dangerous.

_Because you never do anything the easy way, do you, Dean?_

“Lucifer gave Cain an enormous power, but it came with a price: the Mark would protect him, destroying everyone who would try to harm him, but it would drain his energy in order to do that.” He paused and sighed, looking at Sam wetting once again the cloth to cool it and put it back on Dean’s pale forehead. “But Cain was a demon; he was since he had killed Abel. Dean is a man.”

_Weak. Frail._

“What can we do?”

The angel shook his head, stepping away from the bed and stopping near the wall where Dean had hung his shotguns.

“Wait. My grace can’t pass the barrier created by the Mark, so it’s up to him,” he solemnly said.

Sam closed his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed and lightly touching his brother’s face. Castiel looked at him. He didn’t share with Sam the same bond he shared with Dean, and he was definitely less comfortable - less _human_ \- but he’d known him long enough to care about him as well and to notice something was troubling him.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What do you mean? I already told you what happened.”

“Not with the demons. Why does he have the Mark? You said that he met Cain. That he _told_ you he met Cain. Did it happened after that night, when you weren’t together yet?” Sam nodded, but didn’t say anything. “Sam,” Cas pressed.

The young man sighed.

“He told me he followed Crowley,” he said and then stopped, waiting for Castiel’s reaction.

“Crowley? He worked with _Crowley_?” the angel repeated.

_See, Dean? I’m not the only one who didn’t like that._

“We have the same goal: kill Abaddon. Crowley is small fry, compared to her, but we’ll take care of him too,” Sam answered, and it was a vow.

“How did they get to Cain?”

“I have no idea. We haven’t… talked much, since we resumed working together.”

Castiel understood what Sam was really saying.

“You haven’t forgiven him yet,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

Sam didn’t answer. Took the cloth and dunked it in the washbasin.

“He made a mistake, but he did it for a right reason,” the angel went on watching as he put the wet washcloth on Dean’s forehead.

_Oh, no, we’re not having this conversation._

Sam shrugged, but Castiel didn’t let it go.

“Sam. You know why he did it.”

The young man stayed silent. Cas patiently waited. Long minutes passed, and Sam caved at last.

“Yes. And it wasn’t the right thing to do,” he answered.

“You would’ve died.”

“I was ready to die.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

Sam got up abruptly and turned to the angel.

“I don’t? What do you know? Don’t you think I’ve given enough, _all my life_? Don’t you think I deserve to… to rest, finally?” he vehemently asked.

Castiel watched him sadly.

“You deserve to not to fight anymore. You deserve to not to sacrifice yourself,” he answered. “But he does as well.”

Sam waved impatiently his hand.

“I know. And I wish he could have that and so much more, but not…” He sighed to calm himself. “Not like this. Not keeping me tied to him and himself to me.”

“It’s not Dean who keeps you tied together,” Cas said. “Sam, how did Dean make Gadreel take your body? He needed your consent,” he said non sequitur.

Sam snorted.

“He tricked me. He appeared in my… dream, or whatever, and made me say yes.”

“And what was the question?” the angel gently pressed. Sam looked at him, confused. “You can just say yes to whatever question, for an angel to be able to possess your body. What was the question, Sam?”

_“You have to fight this! I can fix this, okay? But not if you shut me out.” Dean had told him, desperation in his eyes. Then he’d turned to Death. “It's not his time!”_

_“That’s for Sam to decide.”_

_“Sam, listen to me,” his brother had looked back at him. “I made you a promise in that church. You and me, come whatever. Well, hell, if this ain't whatever... But you got to let me in, man. You got to let me help. There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.”_

_Sam had looked at Death, and then back at Dean._

_“What do I do?”_

_“Is that a yes?”_

“He asked me if I wanted to fight,” Sam whispered.

Castiel smiled softly.

“He lied to you - you would’ve never given your consent to an angel, but to your brother you would - but… _you_ chose to live, Sam. You chose Dean rather than death. You and your brother chose each other, time and time again.” Sam looked at his brother, but didn’t say anything. “I will not tell you to forgive him, because it’s not my place. But I will tell you to understand him.”

The wet cloth was warm again; the fever kept climbing.

Sam didn’t reply to Castiel; he got up and went to fetch the first aid kit they kept in the bathroom. He took the thermometer and gently pressed it in his brother’s ear, half expecting him to complain for Sam’s playing nurse. Dean didn’t talk, though, he didn’t even stir. He was still pale, his freckles more apparent than ever, his cheeks flushed by the fever. The thermometer bipped; one hundred and three.

Sam frowned. A wet cloth on the forehead was all but useless. He gently removed Dean’s shoes, jacket and shirt, handling his brother like a giant rag doll. On his right arm, the Mark of Cain stood out on the pale skin, bright red like it was lit from the inside. Castiel stiffened, clenching his fists. Sam closed his eyes for a moment. He the rummaged through the first aid kit looking for the cold compresses.

“If the fever keeps climbing we’ll have to take him to a hospital,” he said, and it was half question: will it help?

Castiel looked away from the Mark and sighed.

“I don’t know how much energy the Mark drained from him. But I know Dean is strong,” he answered, and Sam felt annoyed. Yeah, Dean was strong. But, for once, it would be good if he didn’t _have_ to be, if he didn’t have to fight. “Sam.” Castiel looked at him with Jimmy Novak’s deep blue eyes. “When he wakes, you will have to talk to him. The Mark doesn’t just affects his body, but his mind as well. It’s Lucifer’s Mark. Don’t let him carry it alone.”

Sam had to look down to his hands setting the cold compresses in the right places - behind Dean’s neck, under his armpits, like the instruction told him; he hoped they would work, he didn’t want to think what would happen if they couldn’t lower the fever.

Truth was he understood perfectly well Dean and his fear to lose his family. That night in Lawrence, when he was still a little kid, he had lost every sense of stability, he’d seen his father turn into a grim and hard man and had been entrusted with the life of a baby brother who would never know his parents: his life had been indissolubly tied to Sam’s, that night, and the knot had been tightened throughout the years, by John, by Dean - by Sam himself. 

  _‘The relationship that you have with your brother seems dangerously codependent,’_ doctor Fuller had said, years ago. And that was true, their relationship wasn’t healthy, they depended on each other in a different way than normal siblings. Many times Sam had tried to fix it, understanding that codependency - as Fuller had called it - wasn’t good, had tried to make his brother get away from hinting, build a life with the woman he loved and the kid he felt as his own; he’d tried to leave him free. But Dean had always come back to him, even with Sam had been the one in the wrong, even when a normal person would’ve lost faith and given in to the rage.

_‘Don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I’m begging you.’_

_‘There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.’_

Sam had accused him of being selfish, of needing his brother by his side because he was afraid to be alone. And that was true, Sam knew it, _Dean_ knew it. But it was false, and Sam knew that too.

Dean had put his brother in front of everything, even - especially - himself: he’d chosen Sam rather than their father, rather than Lisa and Ben, rather than Benny. He’d given his soul for him. Sam was his purpose, his foundation, the center of his world.

Dean could die, Sam couldn’t: if Sam died, Dean would follow him, because the world would just stop for Dean, would vanish.

_‘I want you to have a life, become a man of Letters, whatever. You, with a wife and kids and-and-and grandkids, living till you’re fat and bald and chugging Viagra: that is my perfect ending; and it’s the only one that I’m gonna get.’_

It was wrong, unhealthy. But you can’t erase thirty years of conditioning, and Sam knew that, had seen it every day of his life. He kept seeing it even now: Dean had stopped calling him ‘Sammy’, taking for granted that he wanted to be part of a hunt, offering him to watch a movie together, lying or hiding things from him… but he hadn’t stopped taking care of him - even if in silence, without a smile. He’d entered the warehouse before Sam because he couldn’t know what was on the other side of the door, he’d given his brother the weapon that would allow him to be the safest when they’d split up.

Sam wished Dean would understand that he could stop, that his brother was an adult man, able to take care of himself. But it was like asking a mother to stop worrying for her kids when they’re late returning home at night.

He touched his brother’s forehead and felt it hot - and dry. He didn’t know much about medicine, but John had seen to them learning the basics of first aid to survive with their job, just like he’d learnt when he’d enlisted, and they were enough to know that no sweating wasn’t a good sign.

Castiel had left the room without him noticing, and now returned with a glass of water.

“Try and make him drink,” he said, and Sam nodded. He brought the glass to his brother’s mouth and tipped it slightly to let a few drops fall between the parted lips. He went on for a while, few drops at a time, because he wasn’t sure Dean could swallow while unconscious.

“What did you mean when you said the Mark effects his mind?” he asked because he couldn’t stand the silence. He kept thinking about his brother holding the First Blade and not hearing him calling. He was afraid, afraid of what would happen next time.

Castiel took the cloth from the washbasin and gently passed it on the unconscious hunter’s face and hair.

“It’s Lucifer’s Mark.”

“You already said that.”

“Sam,” Cas said, and in those three letters there was so much. Sam was reminded of how, with only a different intonation, Dean managed to convey a whole sentence by saying just his brother’s name. “Cain is a servant of Hell.”

“You already said this too. You said Cain’s soul was corrupted by killing his brother, but what does it have to do with it?”

“I said that killing his brother turned him into a demon. But the hatred was already in Cain since he’d given in to Lucifer’s promises.

“Dean hasn’t given in to Lucifer,” Sam fiercely retorted.

“No, but he bears the Mark of the Devil. Cain was a demon: the Mark had to protect him, to give him the power to lead the Knights. Dean is a man. The Mark is a black stain that feeds of his soul. Without the Blade it is… incomplete. That is the only reason I can think of for why Dean is still here. But when he will have the Blade…” the angel solemnly replied.

“You mean… he’ll die?” There was fear in Sam’s voice.

_I can’t lose him. I can’t._

But Castiel closed his eyes - if he had still been human he’d have tears to hold back.

“His soul will be corrupted. The Dean we know will die.”

For a moment, Sam couldn’t breathe.

“Will he become a demon?” he whispered.

Castiel didn’t answer, but his silence spoke loud.

It had been the first thing Sam had thought when he’d seen Dean using the Blade, when the picture of himself drinking Ruby’s blood had imposed itself on his mind: even if he hadn’t known then, Sam’s eyes had become black when he’d given in to his powers to kill Lilith. He had been a demon for a few seconds.

In was a thought he’d tried to erase from his mind, to deny.

_Not Dean. Non like this._

He felt like choking. He got up and walked - almost _ran_ \- out of the room.

Dean had always been the good son, the good brother. He was the Righteous Man, archangel Michael’s vessel. Sam was the one infected with demon blood, the one who’d freed Lucifer, the one destined since before his conception to become the devil’s vessel.

Dean couldn’t become a demon. His soul was too _pure_.

He laughed for the insane situation and passed his hand through his hair. His eyes were wet. Damn it, _he’d seen Dean with the Blade_. He’s seen, he’d seen, he’d seen…

He breathed deeply to calm himself down.

They’d find a solution. Now Cas knew what’d happened. He was an angel, he had his grace back, and he could help them find a solution.

Calmer, more determined, Sam got back to his brother’s room. For the first time, he noticed the lack of LPs, magazines, everything that a year ago Dean had put there in his “nesting”, as he’d called it. He wondered when he’d taken everything off and why. Was it the Mark? Or was it before? Or was it… because of Sam?

Mary’s photo was missing too, the young man noticed with a knot in his chest.

“The fever’s higher that before,” Castiel said giving him the thermometer; one hundred and four.

Sam nodded. He put the thermometer on the nightstand and, without a word, walked out of the room again; this time, he went to the bathroom, put the lid on the bath’s drain and opened the valve to fill it with cold water. Then got back to Dean and gently but efficiently started to strip him to his boxer briefs.

Dean didn’t make a sound.

_I want you to hear you complain, to ask me to keep my hands off, to tell me I’m not you’re kind of woman. Call me Sammy, Dean._

But Dean kept being quiet, kept passively twisting and bending under his brother’s hands. The red Mark stood out on his pale skin.

Sam clenched his jaw and leaned forward to slip an arm behind Dean’s back and the other under his knees. He lifted his brother in his arms and didn’t feel the strain, didn’t waver for the added weight.

_I’m here, Dean. I got you._

He felt his brother’s skin burn even through his shirt, but resolutely walked out of the room to get him to the bathroom. He gently lay Dean in the bath, kneeling next to him.

When he came in contact with the cold water, Dean seemed to hold his breath for a moment and stirred a little.

“Dean?” Sam said, hopeful.

His brother didn’t answer nor opened his eyes, but soon his body started to shiver slightly.

“It’s working,” Castiel said, relieved.

Sam held his brother with an arm around his shoulders, the other hand holding Dean’s, mindless of the water soaking his shirt. His brother’s dark blond head was on his chest.

They stayed like that until the shakes become more evident and Dean moaned faintly; Sam lifted him again and sat him on a stool, wrapped in the towel Castiel gave him.

He didn’t let the angel take him back to the bed; he lifted him up again, making sure his brother was covered with the terry cloth so he wouldn’t get wet again touching Sam’s clothes.

Sam’s arms hurt when he finally lay Dean back on his bed, but he didn’t care; if they roles were reversed, Dean would’ve taken care of him. He _had_ taken care of him, for years.

Castiel put a hand on his shoulder and smiled softly.

“I told him I wouldn’t do the same for him,” Sam said; the words tumbled out as if they had a will of their own - as if they wanted to be spoken, _freed_.

Castiel didn’t look angry. He nodded.

“You wouldn’t let an angel possess him knowing he wouldn’t want that,” he said.

“But that… was the only way. If he didn’t do that, I’d have died. And… I was fine with it, but if our roles were reversed… I would’ve lost him,” he concluded in a whisper.

“Love can have many faces. Letting someone go when it’s time means love them.”

“I don’t wanna let him go,” Sam said, and for a moment he felt like the kid his brother still saw in him.

“I know. And you will not have to. We’ll be at his side, like he did for us,” the angel promised. 

\---

 They watched over him all night. They kept checking his fever to make sure it stayed within a safe range, wetting his forehead and trying to make him drink a little water to keep him hydrated.

Sam was tired, but he didn’t even try and close his eyes; nor Castiel tried to suggest he could go to bed, he just took the cloth or the thermometer from Sam’s hands a couple times.

“We found the Blade,” Sam suddenly said. He couldn’t stand the silence. The angel raised his gaze but didn’t say a word. “Now Crowley has it, but Dean used it and…” He stopped, unsure how to go on. How could he describe the ferocity in Dean’s eyes, the blankness, the way he’d looked at what he’d identified as his next prey - Crowley? Or maybe Sam?

How could he describe his fear and horror?

Castiel sighed and closed his eyes; he looked so human, suddenly.

“The Blade completes the Mark,” he only said, and he’d already said it, but to Sam it sounded like a death sentence.

Without the Blade they couldn’t kill Abaddon; with the Blade, they’d lose Dean. 

\---

 While the sun was rising on Kansas, Dean’s breath changed. Sam was at his side in a second. Castiel stood on the other side of the bed.

“Dean?”

The older Winchester turned his head towards the familiar voice. His eyelids fluttered as if he was trying to open them. They finally parted and blinked a few times, as if he was trying to bring thing into focus.

Dean saw Castiel and frowned, at a loss.

“Cas?” he tried to say, but his mouth was dry and his voice broke.

Sam promptly helped him drink from a glass.

Dean’s eyes showed even more confusion when they landed on his brother.

“Sam? What’re you doin’ here?” he asked after taking a sip. He looked only half awake.

“You passed out, yesterday, and we couldn’t wake you up. You’ve been running a high fever all night,” his brother answered.

Dean seemed to muse on his words for a few seconds, and Sam was expecting something along the lines ‘little girls pass out, me _fall asleep really fast_ ’, but what he got was much different.

“But why are you here?”

It was Sam’s turn to be confused.

“You were running a high fever. You wouldn’t wake up,” he repeated searching Castiel with his eyes.

“My powers didn’t work,” the angel said, but Dean just blinked, as if staying awake required a great effort.

“But… why did you stay with be?” he asked while his eyes fell closed. His breath evened out. He was asleep.

Sam looked at him, horrified. Devastated.

“Why did… He… He thought I wouldn’t…” he stammered.

Castiel shook his head looking at Sam.

“He just woke up. He is not lucid yet,” he tried to explain. And he was right, Dean wasn’t completely lucid yet and that was the only reason he’d spoken. But the problem wasn’t that he didn’t think what he’d said - only that he wouldn’t have said it aloud if he’d been lucid.

Dean expected Sam to abandon him in his moment of need.

‘ _No, Dean. I wouldn’t. Same circumstances… I wouldn’t._ ’

“Oh, God,” he muttered.

Sam had meant he wouldn’t have lied, wouldn’t have tricked his brother, would’ve respected his decision without trying to make him change his mind - and he now regretted that, realizing that wasn’t true, that he wasn’t that different from his brother, that he would’ve tried _anything_ as well, if it meant saving Dean - but Dean hadn’t heard the ‘same circumstances’: he’d only heard ‘I would’ve left you to die’.

This time, the tears flooded down his cheeks without him even noticing.

Dean believed that the person he loved the most would’ve left him to die.

“Sam.” Castiel’s voice made its way through his thoughts. The young man raised his anguished gaze onto the angel. “Thinking about it now won’t fix anything,” the angel told him wisely. “When he wakes up again, you two will talk,” he softly added.

Sam looked back at his brother and nodded again. 

\---

 Dean didn’t wake up till noon. Castiel insisted for Sam to eat something and, just to humour him, the young man took a cookies box and nibbled a couple. The other didn’t look satisfied, but he knew that was as much as he was gonna get.

When he saw his brother start to stir, Sam left the box and sat on the edge of the bed, determined to show his brother he wouldn’t leave him.

“Dean?”

The older Winchester opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was his brother’s worried face.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked.

“Thirsty,” Dean croaked. His brother immediately gave him a glass and helped him drink. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Dean had to think for a few seconds.

“Hunting. Warehouse. Demons. Then… nothing,” he slowly answered. He paused briefly, then remembered something else and became distressed. He tried to sit up, but Sam kept him down pushing a hand lightly against his chest. “Abaddon!” His eyes were wide open. “She had a girl, did we find her?” he asked, and it wasn’t clear if he was talking about the alleged hostage or the demon.

“Dean. Dean, calm down,” Sam said. Castiel got closer, ready to intervene if needed. “It was a trap. The girl and her parents were demons. They wanted us in the warehouse, waiting for Abaddon, I think.”

Dean frowned. _And why didn’t we stay there and wait?_ he seemed to ask.

“Don’t you remember anything else?” the angel asked.

The hunter moved his gaze onto him, confused, as if he’d just noticed the angel being there. Lost, he looked back at Sam. Sam closed his eyes, ready to explain _why_ he hadn’t left him, but Cas went on: “Do you remember passing out? Waking up a few hours ago and falling asleep again?”

Dean brought his gaze back onto him.

“No,” he just said. And Sam felt immensely grateful towards the angel for intervening, because he wasn’t sure he could’ve listened to his brother ask him why he was there with him again.

“We split up to search the building,” he explained. “I’m not sure what happened to you, but I met demons - one of them was the girl missing - and when I reached you there were bodies on the floor, demons you’d killed, ad…” He bit his lower lip searching for the right words. “And you were on your knees, screaming, and there three more demons that just _collapse_ before you. And then you passed out.”

Dean was perplexed.

“I… killed three demons and lost consciousness?” he asked. He looked at Sam, at Cas and back at Sam.

“You bear the Mark of Cain,” the angel finally answered, and his too blue eyes burned into the hunter’s.

Dean didn’t understand what that had to do with anything, but after all it wasn’t the first time Cas followed his own though process without bothering to listen to the conversation. And, anyway, he knew that sooner or later the angel would’ve found about the Mark. And he wouldn’t be happy.

He closed his eyes, dragging a hand to cover himself better - to cover the Mark - with the terry cloth towel he was wrapped in.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked raising his head looking around. Sam and Cas were in his line of vision, keeping him from seeing much of his room.

“Dean…” his brother started. He needed an answer. “Did you know what you were doing when you accepted the Mark?”

“Do you mean if I read the terms and conditions before sealing the contract?” Sam flinched at ‘contract’, remembering another deal, so many years ago. Dean didn’t seem to notice. “The only way to kill a Knight of Hell if the First Blade and you can only use it if you have the Mark. I knew enough.”

Sam clenched his fists, annoyed by his brother attitude: how could his brother never think about the consequences? “Do you know that’s the Mark of Lucifer?” he asked. “According to Cas, the Bible version is wrong.”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, looks like the bad guy was Abel, after all, and Cain just made a deal with Lucifer so that his brother would go to Heaven.”

Sam blinked, taken aback. He searched for Cas to ask for an explanation, but he didn’t seem to know what Dean was talking about either.

“You are wrong. Cain killed Abel because he was jealous and turned into a demon. Lucifer appointed him as master of the Knights of Hell until the angels killed them all. Except for Abaddon, of course.”

Dean shook his head.

“The official version is a bit different from what really happened,” he said and proceeded to tell them about everything Cain had told him.

“And you believe him?” Sam asked, puzzled. Following Crowley was crazy enough, accepting the Mark was crazy, not killing Crowley before they left Magnus’ horror house was crazy… but believing a Knight of Hell? _Cain_?

Dean didn’t answer. He tried to sit up again, not comfortable with being the only one to lay down in that conversation. His brother kept him down. “Sam, let me go.”

“You just woke up after almost a whole day.”

“Exactly, I’ve been down long enough.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it.”

Dean ignored him and planted his elbows into the mattress for leverage. Of course, if Sam removed his fucking hand from his shoulder it would be easier.

Castiel snorted and leaned forward to take Dean under his armpits and help him sit up. Sam glared at him. Dean looked at him half grateful and half murderous.

“Better help him before he hurts himself trying to do it on his own,” the angel justified himself to the younger Winchester. Sam snorted a laugh and straightened the pillows behind his brother’s back.

“Very funny,” Dean muttered. “Why don’t I have my clothes on?”

“Because you were had a high fever. And I mean _high_ ,” Sam answered losing his patience. “I had to immerse you in cold water, and it wouldn’t be smart doing that with ten layers of clothing.”

Dean lowered his gaze, embarrassed with the picture of his little brother and an angel stripping him down and putting him in the bath. He adjusted the towel covering him. He clenched his left hand on the other arm - the Mark had resumed stinging as soon as he woke up.

“Dean? Why did you accept the Mark?” Sam asked after long minutes.

“Because it’s the only way to kill Abaddon.”

“Are you sure Cain was telling the truth?” Cas asked. The hunter nodded.

“Castiel… If you were wrong about Cain and Abel… Is it possible you were wrong about the Mark as well?” Sam asked turning towards the angel, hopeful, imploring.

_Stupid. You saw the effect of the Blade, you fucking saw it. Stop hiding your head under the sand, stop denying what’s before your eyes, like a little kid._

Cas sadly shook his head.

“What are you talking about? What do you know about the Mark?” Dean butted in.

It wasn’t the right thing to say. Sam was baffled and angry when he looked at him

“So you really didn’t know what you were getting into when you accepted it? You just said yes to the promise of killing Abaddon? _Didn’t you notice anything when you were using the Blade?_ ”

Dean shrugged.

“Cain said something about a ‘great burden’. I knew it wouldn’t be easy,” he answered ignoring the part about the Blade.

Sam was about to say - _yell_ \- something, but Castiel preceded him.

“You are a fucking idiot, Dean” he said in a low and ominous voice.

Dean raised his eyebrow, astonished - and a little proud: the old Cas wouldn’t call him a fucking idiot.

“Dean, according to Cas, the Mark…” Sam wanted to tell his brother what the angel had told him, but he couldn’t. _The Mark is gonna turn you into a demon_. Saying it aloud would make it real. _More_ real.

“Do you know why you had a fever? Why you wouldn’t wake?” Castiel interrupted, his voice hard. “The Mark protects you from your enemies’ lethal hits,” he started, but Dean made a lopsided grin and said “That’s useful,” which fueled the angel’s anger. Sam wished for his brother to learn to keep silent rather than make stupid jokes to divert people’s attention. “But to do that, it drains your body’s energy,” Cas went on resisting the impulse Sam felt to punch the smart-ass hunter. “You’ve been unconscious for almost a whole day. You’ve been sick. And it was because of the Mark. And that’s not all,” he added before Dean could crack another joke. “The Mark of Lucifer corrupts the soul of its bearer, Dean. With the Blade, it leads to damnation.”

Castiel’s words didn’t erase Dean’s grin but weakened it - made it bitter. It wasn’t that great a revelation: no matter what people - and himself, sometimes - thought, Dean wasn’t stupid; he’d noticed the effect of the Blade.

A heavy silence set in the room for long minutes. Finally, Dean took a deep breath and looked back up at his brother and the angel.

“I’m not gonna become a demon,” he said.

“It’s not up to you. The Mark is already exercising its influence over you, and if you use the Blade…” Cas replied, but Dean interrupted him.

“No. I’m not gonna become a demon because, as soon as I kill Abaddon, one of you it gonna kill me. Before I turn into a monster.”

It took a couple of seconds during which Castiel and Sam stared at him uncomprehending; then the horror of what he’d said made its way into them.

“We are never gonna do it,” the angel declared, shaken.

“How can you ask such a thing to us?” Sam said at the same time quickly standing up, six foot four of incredulity, of anger, of pain.

“You asked me, once,” Dean calmly replied.

“And you told you’d never do it!”

“That’s right, _I_ wouldn’t.”

And there was no accusation, there was no anger. There was pragmatism, awareness. It was the tone of someone who’s stating what’s already known. The obvious.

But there was pain in his eyes, there was resignation.

‘ _No, Dean. I wouldn’t. Same circumstances… I wouldn’t._ ’

“Dean…” Sam whispered, deflating.

Castiel looked at them both for a moment.

“If you want me, I’ll be in the… other room. To… do something. You two talk,” he said walking out of the door.

No Winchester talked right away, though.

“He hasn’t learnt how to be subtle, yet,” Dean said when the silence became too much.

“Dean, you can’t ask me to kill you: I’m not gonna do it,” Sam said ignoring the stupid joke. He walked to the desk, back to his brother, gaze lowered and sad. His brother snorted, but he didn’t say a word. “We’ll find a solution.” Dean kept stubbornly quiet. “You’re my brother, I could never…”

“Oh, yeah? I was under the impression we were just work partners,” the older man bitterly replied.

“I was angry. I felt… betrayed.”

“Join the club.”

Sam closed his eyes. He turned back towards the bed and opened them again.

“Ok, I deserved that. I’m sorry. I didn’t say that to hurt you, I just wanted you to… understand. I was…

“… ready to die, I know, you already said that. And I told you I wasn’t ready to let you go. I will never be. And if that makes me selfish, well… I don’t give a fuck,” Dean said looking straight at him. He was still pale, his freckles were clearly visible even from where Sam stood, yet he didn’t look like someone who’d almost risked to die for a fever, he didn’t look like a man who was telling the person who’d hurt him to kill him: he looked so much like the man he was when they were hunting, the man he’d been after John’s death and Purgatory, the man who’d beheaded Magnus.

“I was wrong telling you those things,” Sam said turning his back again, afraid he would lose the courage to speak. He made a few steps to let off some tension. “I know why you accepted Gadreel’s help, and…” He sighed. “Look, I was… tired. Tired of fighting, of… losing. I was ready to give my life to close Hell forever, but then you came and… and asked me not to. And I didn’t. And I blamed you for a decision I took,” he ended in an almost whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Dean didn’t answer. He wanted to believe his brother, he was trying to, but it was hard. It was painful.

Sam went on: “When I told you I wouldn’t do the same, I meant I wouldn’t… lie to you like that. That I would respect your choice. But…” He snorted a humorless laugh. “That’s not true. You were right: I would’ve done the same. I realized that when I was afraid I would lose you…” he said. “And it’s wrong,” he whispered.

“You decide what’s right or wrong. There is no rule,” Dean finally spoke.

Sam shook his head, but didn’t say a word. There was nothing more he could say.

His brother sighed.

“I shouldn’t have lie to you. I shouldn’t have let an angel possess you. I knew you wouldn’t accept that, if I asked you,” he said. “But it was the only way, I didn’t know what else I could do. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else I could do.”

Sam nodded.

“I just wish you’d… let me take my choices. That you’d understand I can take them.”

“I know you can,” Dean answered with a sad smile. “It’s just… I wanna help you,” he said lowering his gaze onto the towel half covering him like a blanket. That wasn’t the word he was looking for; it wasn’t enough to express everything he wished he could do for Sam: guide him, protect him, support him, give him everything.

“And I _want_ your help, my big brother’s help. But I also want the chance to take a step on my own, no matter the direction. With no deals, no angels.”

Dean closed his eyes. _With no deals, no angels_ Sam would’ve died at twenty-three in a ghost town in the mud.

He nodded once, trembling, as if he was afraid that a longer movement would condemn his brother do death. He was ready to try, to give Sam space. But he wouldn’t let him die. It just was not in him.

They kept silent for long minutes.

Children are taught that you need to apologize to make peace, but when you’re an adult you learn it’s pointless, the pain you caused and felt can’t be erased by words. There was a fracture between them, and it would take time to fix it - if it was fixable at all. But they’d made a step towards each other. They’d decided they wanted to try and rebuild their relationship. A different relationship, maybe.

It was only a start. But it’s the start that makes the difference.

They stayed quiet and after a little while Castiel got back to Dean’s room, looking satisfied.

“Eavesdropping is impolite,” the hunter told him.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was in the kitchen listening to you.”

“And how wouldn’t that be eavesdropping?”

Castiel shrugged. “My mind can hear the words of billions of humans without me trying. Among these there were the two of you. It was a coincidence,” he casually replied and in spite of everything Sam chuckled. The air became serious again when Cas said: “We’re not going to kill you. We will find a solution. In the meantime, I’ll search among the angel if anyone knows anything more.”

“So you found allies?” Dean asked, desperate to change the topic.

“That’s what they said they were. And they acted as allies, until now. So… I hope.”

“We’ll find something, Dean,” Sam promised getting the conversation back on track.

Dean closed his eyes.

“We gotta find Abaddon. The rest can come later,” he stubbornly replied.

“Dean,” Castiel tried to reason, “the Blade magnifies the effect of the Mark. If you use it again, it could be too late.”

“And if I don’t use it, Abaddon takes over Hell and unleash her hordes of demons on earth,” the hunter retorted opening his eyes and staring at the angel.

“We can find another solution for Abaddon…”

“Really? What?”

 Dean angrily interrupted. “Because we tried to trap her in a Devil’s Trap and that bitch managed to get free. She’s not your average demon, she’s the last Knight of Hell, and the only weapon that can destroy her is the First Blade!” He’s raised his voice to the point of almost yelling. He stopped, breathless, and for the first time since he’d first woken up he looked like someone who’d been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours with a high fever.

Sam and Castiel didn’t reply; they knew that reason with Dean like that wasn’t possible.

On the other hand, the hunter knew he hadn’t convinced them, but he also knew that it was up to him. And he would kill Abaddon, no matter the cost.

The silence was tense. All three of them were avoiding each other’s gaze, until Dean decided he was done.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked.

“Why?” Sam replied frowning.

His brother raised an eyebrow. “Because I don’t wanna flash my beauty all around? Really, Sam, if you’re that desperate, there’s a bar not too far from here; I could give you a few tips on how to pick up a _girl_ for the night.”

“I’ll ask again: since you’re gonna stay in that bed for a while, why do you want your clothes?”

“No way. I’m not gonna stay here lazing about another minute, I’ve been asleep long enough,” the older Winchester retorted, adjusting the towel to cover his boxers - and he thanked heaven that Sam and Cas had left him his briefs, he shuddered at the thought of them leaving him _naked_. It was enough of a humiliation as it was.

“You weren’t asleep, Dean, _you were unconscious and running a high fever_ ,” Sam replied raising his voice and articulating every word clearly. “Cas, a hand,” he demanded seeing that his brother had no intention to give up.

Castiel seemed to be enjoying the show.

“I could make him go to sleep,” he only said.

“Try and I’ll tear your finger off,” Dean threatened moving his attention onto the angel.

Cas shrugged. “You’d be asleep, so my fingers would be safe.”

He’d come a long way since he’d first met the Winchesters: now he could often understand jokes - but not the pop culture references - and even make some. And, more important, he was able to stand his ground against Dean.

Which wasn’t good for Dean.

“I wanna get up,” the hunter repeated. He couldn’t be still: he needed to move, to act.

_To find Abaddon and tear her to pieces._

“You sound like a kid throwing a temper tantrum,” Sam pointed out. Castiel took it like an invitation to put his threat to practice and got closer to the bed.

“Ok, ok, I’ll stay in bed! I just wanna go to the bathroom,” the hunter grumbled, defeated.

Sam nodded and leaned closer to help him up. Dean glared at him and the younger man had to pull back and raise his hands in surrender: it was clear anyway that Dean wouldn’t be able to do it himself.

Sure enough, Dean managed to put his feet on the ground and half get up from the bed, but his ass was just a few inches above his beloved memory foam mattress when his attempt failed: the older Winchester swayed for a couple of seconds and collapsed back on the bed, pale.

Cas and Sam grabbed an arm each to prevent him from falling and helped him up, supporting part of his weight. His stubbornness notwithstanding, Dean had to accept their help to shuffle to the bathroom, but once they got to the door he forbade them to enter with him, and braced himself against the wall to the toilet. He knew the two mother hens were just outside the door - Sam had prevented him from locking the door, “or else I’m gonna tear it down” - but he managed to take care of business without asking for help, he washed his hands and, though a little shaking and a lot pale, he opened the door and accepted his brother and Castiel’s help to the bed.

He half collapsed onto it, but gathered enough strength to tell them to leave.

“We’re not gonna leave you, Dean,” Cas said, and it was clear he wasn’t talking about leaving the room. “We’ll be at your side.”

Dean diverted his eyes, his eyelids becoming heavy.

“We’ll find a solution,” Sam vowed and it was the last thing Dean heard before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to be as impartial as possible about the fight between the brothers. I have picked my side, of course - I hope it’s not too clear in the story - but I tried to be just to both of them and their reasons: in my opinion, Dean is never gonna apologize to Sam for what he’s done, because it would mean that a world without Sam is possible, and that just can’t be for Dean; on the other hand, I can’t deny Sam’s reasons (though the show writers seem to have forgotten them and are focusing the brothers’ arguments on reasons Sam doesn’t have, like “I was ready to die”) and the only way he could actually forgive Dean - beyong the unrealistic chance that Dean apologizes - is finding himself in the same situation. Which is sad.  
> I hope I did them both justice.  
> There are a few lines taken from the show and they are from episodes 9x01, 5x11, 8x23, 9x01 again, 8x14 and twice more 9x13.  
> “You and your brother chose each other” Cas says this in episode 9x11. I think it was a great line and it should’ve been used better, so I tried to do it in my fic.  
> Time. Time in the show flows wherever writers want it to flow. I know that between season five ans six and again between season seven and eight there’s a whole year break, but they’re not respecting it, so I decided that these four seasons don’t last a whole year and we are in 2014. Simple, right? XD  
> I love comparing Dean to an apprehensive mom: Sam grew up withour a mom and with two male role models; since Dean is the older brother, and the only sibling who actually knew their mom - knew what a mom is - he acted as a mediator between daddy and little brother. He had, out of necessity, to take some traits that would’ve been Mary’s if she’d been alive. I’m not gonna write a ten pages analysis of their roles in the family, but I’m gonna say this: in families with one parent, part of the responsibility of the youngest falls on the older sibling. That’s just normal, even in families that don’t hunt monsters. So don’t even try and twist my words to make me sound like I’m saying John was a piece of shit: I love him, so no flame about daddy Winchester. Make love not war :)


End file.
